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V:*-' :■•?.■■.■; 






\ \ 

I I 


i\ \ \ /in i j 

{ 1 y \ Randy Var ju / / / / / / 

[ \ \ \ Davie. Moore \ \\\ I [ 

V\ I \\ I Steve Faron \\\\ / 

V | 1 John Stobart \ \\ \ \ 

i j J Judy Self i eld \ \ [I i \ 



^ X / / // ; Maureen Mueller j ,' /, \V..^ ^ 
f j I / // h Michael A. Stillnan jj l\\ 

\ To get a submission printed in this issue, four of 
the"" above had to vote for acceptance. For the award 
winner, only John Stobart ic responsible. 

f \ \ 
/ / / 

/ A 

Manuscripts or cover designs for WORDSATER 43 must 
be submitted to John Stobart in room C-1069 by 

February 15, 1982 
Manuscripts will not be returned. They nay be 
anonynous and SHOULD BE TYPED. 

No prose award this tine. Past prize winners are 
only considered when no new contributors seen worthy. 

WORDSATER 42 COVERS: /// :j _> // 


All copyrights are retained by the authors, and 
material nay not. be reprinted without their per- 

— -~ v 




I f nex: 


2S: \ 


v A \ February 15, 1983 

\ April 15, 1983// 

/ / 






Stacy Biedermann 

David Moore 

Jill Sorensen 

Stacy Biedermann 

Randy Varju 

Judy Belfield 

Jayne Woodcock 

Nancy Lockhart 

Michael A. Stillman 

Jayne Woodcock 

Judy lelfield 

Jill Sorensen 

Jayne Woodcock 

David Moore 

Judy Belfield 

David Moore 

Judy Belfield 

Jayne Woodcock 

Dave O'Brien 

Judy Belfield 

David Moore 

Michael A. Stillman 

Jayne Woodcock 

Judy Belfield 

David Moore 

Nancy Lockhart 

David Moore 

Stacy Biedermann 

David Moore 

Jayne Woodcock 

Judy Belfield 

Jayne Woodcock 

David Moore 

Judy Belfield 

Judy Belfield 

Michael A. Stillman 

Jayne Woodcock 

Randy Varju 

Judy Belfield 

Michael A. Stillman 

Maureen Mueller 

Michael A Stillman 

Mary Ann Gilman 

Judy Belfield 

Maureen Mueller 

David Moore 

Maureen Mueller 

Judy Belfield 

David Moore 

Judy Belfield 

Jayne Woodcock 

David Moore 

Don Zahorcik 

David Moore 

Hr.nJ.y Varju 


Fake I.D . 1 

Orange Eyec 1 

Cquin j Worms. 1 

Preppy ...» 1 

Unblinking Eyes. 1 

There Are Babies In My Head 2 

Scene Played Upon The Dampness Of An Inner Eyelid.. »^ 2 

Red To Me „. * 3 

Synchronicity ...... 3 

Bitterness. 3 

You Were Spearmint Gum. . . 3 

Choices . . 4 

Laughing 4 

Holiday Presence 4 

Conditional Absolution. 4 

Nimbus Nine Is So Fine...... 5 

Sensitivity And Silence . 5 

I Dream 5 

I Sympathize 6 

Cavevoman. 6 

Have A Nice Day. 6 

I Was There.... 6 

Tomorrow Came While I Was Sleeping 6 

No Scales For The Fish 7 

Vegetable Uin .'.o. ....... .. 7 

I Will Read For Them 7 

In The Garden 7 

Confused??? 7 

Witchcraft Aura 7 

l-lov.^ Short Clip 3 From The Inner Eyelid Theater 8 

Satis Verborum. • 8 

-- thologuec • 9 

The Costume Milennia 9 

Pillar Of Salt.... 9 

I Watched You The Day You Were Ugly... 9 

Buddha In A Jar 9 

Untitled. 10 

Gossip. ...................................... ....•••.11 

That Thursday Afternoon 11 

Marcella. 11 

Street Rainbows 11 

Destiny. 11 

Bedlam 12 

Messages .....13 

Sweet Paradox 13 

All Mournings Under The Sun. 14 

Night. 14 

Nightsong 14 

Noah 14 

Another Bream Of Scipio..... ..........14 

There Was A Wind. .15 

Farmland. 15 

Ride . . 15 

Symbolic Babylon „ ...17 

Dried Souls 17 


"And He Swam And He Swam Right Over The Dam" 18 

Just Another Rose .....18 

U.S.S. Stroganof f .18 

Today, For The First Time.. ..19 

Twenty- Two Years Of Stew 19 

October Light. 19 

Christmas Rush And Mums........ 19 

Di3 Red Bear 20 

Begrudging Breadcrumbs. .....20 

Re-Cycle 20 

Karma 20 

Laughing Alone 20 

The Voice Of The Dragon........ 21 

Hycrn To Houbolt/And (Seven Years) Later .........21 

Credo #6 Or #9......... ..........22 


Stacy Biedermann 

FAKE. I. D. 

Iowa. . . 19 
Me.. .17 
Bar. . . 

Brown skull 

no , Butchers Block 

or McButts 
Drink. . . 

Can I? 

Will I? 




Orange eyes , red eyes 
Yellow eyes, blue 
Apple pies, fruit flies 
And flowers for you 

^k vc ye*? *}cyc rT^r 

Jill Sorensen 


A can of Squirm worms 

Picked from the licked wet sidewalks, 

Squirmy wormy squirmin worms. 

Icky, sticky, yicky worms. 

Crawling, curving, weaving worms. 

Oozing, cruising, losing my worms. 

Digging, wiggling, slipping, dipping, 

Creaping, leaking, oodles of noodles of worms, 

Lost, swallowed in the veins of grass. 

A yard of squirmin worms. 


Stacy Biedermann 


Randy Varju 


I remember things, sometimes too well, 
I think. 

I have had nothing to do but sit here 
in ray chair and remember times of go many 
years ago. 

Maybe I should put all of your pic- 
tures away cjoncplnce so I wouldn't be re- 
minded of . . .no, I couldn't possibly do 
that. What, then, would I look at? Or 
even think about? 

Even if I did put your pictures away, 
I would still be reminded of you by prac- 
tically everything around me: the slippers 
you bought me for Christmas. I hated them 
then ; but would never part with them now. 
The empty cupboards everytime I look for 
food and even the pipe I aaoke every 

The polo 

player runs, 


the alligator walks. 
Topsiders and loafers forever, 
BUT duck shoes on rainy days. 


five minutes. 

I remember when you bought me my 
first pipe and how you loved the aroma, 

Darin! I forgot pipe cleaners again 
Damn, damn, damn ... you never forgot 
to get my pipe cleaners. 

Please excuse me while I relight 
my pipe, wipe my eyes, and blow my nose. 

Uhhh ... it constantly gets more 
difficult to rise from this chair. 

I'll just set your picture here mo- 

Where did I put that lighter? Here 


Unblinking Eyes , continued 

it is, right next to nil of these unanswer- 
ed sympathy cardi. I can't fcring myself 
to even open them* 

The flowers are still beautiful , but 
the smell is too similar to the funeral 

Why couldn't we go together? Like 
in a car accident or something? I guess 
that doesn't happen very often. I wonder 
how you would be if I went first,, 

Damn! I burned my thumb again! My 
hand shakes so damn much when I try to 
light my pipe. You used to hold it so 
evenly for me. 

Strange, until now, I never really 
noticed how wrinkled my hands have become. 
The veins are more visible now than I 
remember, and I don't recall ever noticing 
the grey hairs on my knuckles. I suppose 
I'm getting much older than I realized. 

I never realized how old you were 
either until the morning I found you ... 
the veins in your hands were visible then 

I remember waking and wiping the sleep 
from my eyes. I rolled over to wake you, 
but you didn't awake ... I felt only 
your cold skin. 

Oh . . , how I remember your opened 
eyes and expressionless face. That's all 
I remember. I try to rememher all of the 


pleasant smiles, and how everyone said 
I should remember you, but somehow I 
•imply can't. That expressionless face 
with ... with unblinking eyes is in 
every picture of you I see. 

I must try to change my thoughts. 
It is not healthy for one of my age to 
ponder such thoughts. 

There he Is, the little kitten my 
wonderful grandchildren gave ne to 
keep me company. Friendly young kitten. 

Hmmra ... what should I name 
you? Let me see ... a white kitten 
with blue eyes. Blue eyes? I never 
noticed. You do have very pretty blue 

Do you see that picture? Well, she 
was my o . . or is my wife. Well, she 
had very pretty blue eyes ... some- 
thing like yours. 

What? What was that? A sharp . . . 
sting in my chest all the way through 
my left arm. 

I can't believe this. I can't 
breathe. I knew this would happen. 

Where is the phone book? I can't 
find the phone book! You always knew 
where those things were. 

No . . „ hold it. I think ... I'm 

I'll just lay down here ... and 
this time I ... I won't . . . phone 
the doctor ... 

Judy Belfield 


There arc babies in my head, 
babies with shiny blue eyes 
and fat little arms 
that try to reach 'round my neck, 
but can't quite, 

babies with pouty, puckered lips 
and sugared voices that giggle 
while sunshine plays Mozart 
in their platinum curls, 
babies toddling through unmarked years 
where age cannot touch them 
and time cannot breathe on their bones. 


Jayne Woodcock 


Darkdown gentle horizon lying 
Mouth and wetness moving 
Same soft seen from far, now 
dovm , down , clown 
Whywher ex/arm? A fingertip 
Two, three, five 
Handhearthold — who it is. taste 
Tongue, tears, touch 
Darkdexr gentle horizon falling 
Liquid we aj?e moving 

L» »'-*• fj *'_» «. ' _. .. f_ ». t — 


Nancy L^ckhart 


I uoed to leva the noon. 

I oat in her lap of light 

Where I took ny white suppers 

All my white days 

While she read to me. 

I'd watch the moon 

Tuck snuff up under heir lip, 

Then spit on the stars* 

Or sometimes I'd ride 'the noon 

lake a goose. 

Her argent feathers cool . 

Against my thighs. 

Then I'd roll her hone 

To the left side of night 

For a nap. 

chael A. Stilliaan 


Both Zen Buddhion 
And quantum phycicc 
State that every particle 
In the universe 
Is interconnected. 

My father was born 

The same year 

The Hindenburg crashed. 

Now there's a blood spot 
On the moon. 
A clot in the oyo. 
She is blind. 
She is bald. 
She is broken. 
Deformed by some 
Scarlet contagion, 
Like an apple bite 
Stuck in the throat, 
We, too, shall choke 
By inheritance. 


Get it? 

It's the color of dirty oil on the water 

The word on the lips of every father's daughter 

The spark in the eye of a thing that's dying 

The catch in the sound of abrasive crying 

It's the burn of a match that licko your finger 

Gone in an instant; prone to linger 

Clean as a knife cut; easy as pie 

Catch a falling star and watch it die 


Judy Belfield 


You were spearmint gum 

and movies on Saturday nights, 

moviec about Indians with arrows. 
We crawled into a silver screen 

splattered with purplish, 1950' s blood, 

the dark theater of our lives 

where Susan Hayward kissed Gary Cooper 

and they both rode off 

into the sunset. 
We wore alive, 

though I'd been wounded by Comanche s 

in pieces that didn't show — 

and back at home, 

when midnight and silence fell, 

the thunder of hoof beats invaded my dreams , 

and deadly weapons pierced ny skin. 

A great band of braves 

whooped in the darkness 

but suddenly became still 

when I heard you snoring 

in the next room, 

and their painted horses galloped away 

in a cloud of spearmint. 


Jill Sorencen 


It is said to me by the wise advisors today, 

To nail confidently in the direction 

of your dreams. 

With this I will find 

a meaningful , priceless pay. 

But I see a tempting mirage 

beside me now„ 

If I turn towards my dream 

will you 3till be there when 

I reach backwards, beckoning for your hand? 

Will this mirage that you and I 
inhabit clip quietly out of 
my hand — 
and turn to forgotten sand? 


David Moore 


Bland limestone entrails 

Are my jift for this season of cheer 

Maybe I'll do better 

Just give me a year 

Have a galactic chasm 

It can swallow your stars 

Here is a gift 

That won't get you faff 

A vacation in Hell 
For husbands and wives 
It's just the thing 

To end dual lives 

Hairy simians 

That will strip your flesh 

They're just the thing 

To make you feel touched 

Or would 3'ou prefer gifts of the spirit? 



Jayne Woodcock 


There ia a choice to make, a step to 

Farewell Mother, I am ready 

Although I have been advised otherwise 

With each breath I take, I am more cer- 
tain than I was the moment before 

For here I sit, chin cupped close in 

Knees drawn up tight to my gently 
rocking body 

Knowing a little more and laughing a 
little with myself 

At myself 


Judy Belfield 


Bless you, Brother, 

for you have sinned 

against the God 

who is so perfectly perfect, 

he gets angry when your crotch dancec, 

Zip up them thighs 

and say your good-byes — 
ever so politely. 

Spend an hour in the shower, 

offer your goosepimples as penance, 

and kiss your momma good-night. 
It's all very right and well, 

and anyone will tell you 

your flyspock existence 

is being watched minutely 

by the demons of hell 

and, most of all, 

by the Big- Shot- Up- There 

every second, every mo:.:ent — 

and if you listen very closely, 

you can hear yourself crack, 

like a too-delicate glass 

in the dishwasher. 
Occasions of sin are everywhere — 

find the keys to a cave in the deserc 

starve your body, empty your mind, 

and pray, Brother, pray til you rot. 

There aint nothin in life worth havir,. 

an you gotta pass through it quickly, 

with an eye on that other life — 
the only one that's real — 

and don't ask no questions. 


Judy Bel field 


My green-paper iris 

sees lazy, sepia- tinted cats, 

screeching eagles, 

and airy, festering, felt- tip 


that click like teeth 

in the milk-white moonlight 

of euphoric insomnia 

and narcoleptic dreams. 

Screams of psychoneurons 

echo in deaf chasma 

and wail through sacroiliac nightmares. 

I am poisoned by the needle of vision 

as it scratches the eardrums 

of In:'ian summer 

which spills over the crackling ice 

of time' 3 lost bootlace. 

Sing me 3lings and arrows: 

spare the mercy 

and slay the child 

of days wedged in a chocolate pie 

of tedium. 

I'm tired, so tired, 


but I'm waiting for the elevator 

you said you'd send 

through the jctla3 fog. 

Were you sleeping 

the night they burned the library 

in Alexandria? 

David Moore 


Lo unto the shattered crystal prison 
Where time and space begin 
Here to make fate's last stand 
And play the fetus band 

I have no eyes with which to see 
And I forgot my lunch 
I have no blue skies above me 
Just the ©toller crunch 

Lurch in the direction of the infinity 

Boiling with its turbulent power 
Clouds of vaporous mentality 
Plead to find finality 

The green shores of Gaston Beach 

Are far beyond my reach 

As all the people begin to preach 

That they found love ' s dream 

In a box of bleach 

I hear the heavens screech 

Let it depart 

And lift the veil of my illness 



Jayne Woodcock 


I dream 

Myriad of purples, blue3 and tears — throbbing, sobbing music 

A sorrow gnaws deep, pcracitic and festering 

Then wells back up to my pocked but placid surface 
Bursting through swollen pores in a bloody, pulpy 

mass of green, pustulent 
I dream 

Cool, liquid meditation — gentle inplccion 
Freedom unknown to the physical side 
It smacks of the sweet nothingness of untouch 
Deep delving, prime escape route, warm womb 

boundless, non-void, swelling 
I dream 

Hot, fervent, churning-desires — boastful probabilities 
To be or ought to be? That is the question 
To which I address the energies of my impudent imagination 
Patronizing the God of Fatuous Fantasy 

' til thought and action merge 
I dreafl- 



Dave O'Brien 


Brain death, death of emotions 

Ships sink 

How deep is the ocean? 

Dark inviting forest 

The elders knew the answers 

No rolling the odds 

I died once, maybe five tines 

In ray sleep 

Awake, but subliminal 

Can you challenge this? 

I thought not. 

Rolling over, sad and electric 

Eternal light? Hello mother! 

Children die 

One man bows to another 

Did you have Glory? 

Or did the race bring you down 

Down to the worm and the ground 

He let the earth run through his fingers 
His odor no more lingers 
He let the dust run through his fingers 
Everyone cried; I sympathise 


Judy Belfield 


I was taught how not to be taut 

like the strings on tennis racquets, 

but the racket inside my head 

is tense with the noise 

of discordant violins, 

and the strings moan like wolves 

at the whole moon. 

There are holes in my brain 

where the plugs have been pulled, 

and a pool of burned-out neurons 

gurgles down some unseen drain. 

I pretend to be steel , 

to have no Achilles' heel, 

yet I am all heel 

and my soul is spotted 

like the cheetah's coat, 

which is warm and lovely, really. 

Oatmeal and jello 

in a metaphysical blender, 

my thoughts are at once 

repulsively thick and fabulously light. 

Is there light 

at the end of this tunnel , 

and why doesn't Plato answer his phone? 


David Moore 

Are there any grains of intellect 

on the beaches of your mind? 

Are you unaware of the maximum multitude 

of doorways to Pandora's leaking box 

There is no challenge to your supremacy here 

Dark hate clouds and rolling dreams , 
all to enrage the still waters 
Being to all things as all things shall never be 
Listening to the waves of nights engulfing, 
tattered wings 

Michael A. Stillman 


When I was tired 
I painted faces 
On my fingernails 
And then 
I bit them all off. 

Looking across the wastelands of your reality 

But there is no other side 
xlll I see are carnivorous star maggots 

Infecting metaphysical feces 

With overly melodramatic finesse 
The grave of possibilities is now! 
None will weep for you, gcvo yourself 
Gods that aren't, loves that weren't 
A corner of your life's true reality, 

die in the daylight of greater reality 

Sad scavenger, awake to your plight 
Futile grandeur — that is truly what you feel 
That is the nature of your human cmotioruj 

I speak from nowhere 
I speak for you 



Jayne Woodcock 


Tomorrow cone while I was ^loepinj 

Waited on the doorstep, weeping 

Knocked until its knuckles bled 

But I v/as tucked away in bed 

I had yearned; it seemed forever 

For the gifts it would deliver 

As deep into the night I sank 

I sipped on sleep, then greedily drank 

At last I woke to greet the day 

But it had long since crept away 

On the step where it had lain 

A mark like fresh whitewash and pain 

Tomorrow came while I was sleeping 

Waited on the doorstep, weeping 

Tomorrow came, but didn't stay 

The stain it left is yesterday 



Judy Bclfield 


I fit this time 

like a steam-engine in Mary- Mary 'c garden, 
like an apple core 

among the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. 
My time ridec on a gust of air 

into the warps between seasons , 

into the clotted pockets of moments betv/een moments. 

It creakc and settles , 

like a great heap of rusted-out cars, 
and sings a clattering song 
through my junkyard life. 
This time isn't mine — 

this pendulum rhythm of monotony 
beating regularly 

and drawn up into neatly measured little intervals. 
Dontt bother to look for me 

in the midnight of yesterday 
or the noon of today— * 

my echo hacn' t yet arrived. 

David Moore 

:: ••/.- 


Vegetable minds 

Leafy in the sunlight 

No harvest of i understanding 


Nancy Lockhart 


David Moore 


There's an old Chinaman in my garden 
Sculpted out of the grim grey stone 
Gouged from the core of the primal earth 


He stoops in the center of the pond 
Crouching like an antique hermit 
Alert for the approach of others 
His purpose in life consists of 
spewing fountains of knowledge 
Into a pool full of 

slimy, sliding algae 

lilting, lofty lily pads 

and gleaming, glittering goldfish 

coyly darting amongst aquatic plants 

The old Chinaman drools and spits 
Recycling the stale waters 

Renewing the vigor of each drop 
Aa they fly through the avian realm 

To return to their peaceful homelands 
Only to cause ripples 

That J.icturb the serenity 

And the birds are singing too! 
Stacy Biedermann 


No reaction, 
no reply, 
all I get 

is a turn of the eye. 
What should I say? 
What should I do? 
What's going on . . . 
between me and you? 

I shall read for them 

But they won't hear my green vegetable 

Their ears are filled with cotton 

They are sugar heads, 
High on their own sweetness. 
They lick left and right 
For a taste of themselves, 
While my steam table verse, 
Like the odor of fish, 
Is absorbed by the walls. 

David Moore 


Witchcraft aura 

Of the nameless pentagram 

Where all ends ben in 



Jayne Woodcock 


The light dj.ffucoo pn< *' r<?concentrateG to create nev shapes 

Ac I move from thic parched reality to a never green world, saying 

"Excuse me while I clip into comething less plausible" 

My senses dulled during the transition, now grow sharp, sharper 

As the new forms flicker, then become static 

The focal point of my present possible reality turns 

And brushes the hair from his eyes 

(This means hello), and 


I rise, and motioning forward with an empty hand 

Touch warmth — a tactile arm's length 

Eyes intent, I observe the form 

Pale, supple, throbbing with inner warm-blue glow 

Bending near, a taste fills my mouth and lungs 

A dampness upon my upper lip, salt-sweet 

Like the flavour of sweat arid honey 

(This is actualization), but 


Suddenly, light snaps back to its original focus setting with a jarring 

The desert returns, my oasis a mere mirage that vanished with the lifting 

of the heat 
And life again lies cool and dry upon the tongue 

Judy Belfield 



Shake hands with v/ords 

x^hich smile politely. 

Well-tutorod by Emily Post, 

they are held from gaping 

by the braces of etiquette, 

yet turn around 

and catch their condescension 

in your back. 


My name is Incompetence. 
I cannot speak a coherent paragraph 
to save my soul. 

Words were arranged 
like a formal dinner, 
but Senor Diablo 

had spiced every plate generously 
with arsenic. 
All the guests died 
with napkins on their laps. 
Each was about to grasp 
the second fork on the right 
which was placed three inches 
from each water goblet. 

Words drizzled today, 
but the drops took a reverse course 
and crashed into the stratosphere. 

Shakespeare's bones groaned 

and Francis Bacon's ghost 

burned the toast. 

Feathered pens were raised 

in disgust, 

and snapped like the lances of Apaches: 

a treaty had been broken 

anc phrase-; of war 

were painted by monks 

on long, white banners 

which unfurled in the gray sky 

of ignorar.ce. 


My name is Vulgarity. 

Damn you all 

for your civilized ways. 

I do not care a whit 

for 1 your dressed-up words 

as they sit in the assemblages 

created by your cultured ancestors, 

who knew nothing of discord. 

always perfection, 
an abstract goal 
glowing outside the cave. 
Plato knew the words to tell the way 
but did not mark the treasure with an X, 



My name is Despair. 



Jayne Woodcock 


There is raood, there is novenent 

There is expression and feeling 

There is power in your art, power in your silence 

All caught between two bate of an eye 

But like unexperienced nines 

Wg find that without the initial word 

Inserted for clarity 

There is unsure ty 

Judy Bel field 


David Moore 


The costune nillenia is here again 

And all of our disguises remain the sane 

Our lives are but actions 

This party's a game 

And such an existence 

Gives us no nana 

Who are you? 
Gowned in nists of blue 
Eyes toward the distances 
Harvesting nuances 
Consummated at dawn 


Michael A. Stillnan 


In the biology lab resides a Buddha 
in a jar. Many students visit him when 
they feel nervous, depressed, or just 
plain out of touch with their Buddha- 
natures. By studying the serene expres- 
sion on his face, a calnness and spirit 
of 'Tranquility can be attained by those 
who have the capability to let the 
world roll off their shoulders. Or so 
the believers claim. 

A Dissenting Opinion 
Some students clain that the Buddha 
in a jar is really not a Buddha after all. 
They point to the label and say, "See, it's 
just a fetus, with no redeeming meditative 
value." Then they smirk condescendingly 
and walk away. 

Reality Livec In A Dead Dog's Eye 

It is well, known that some people are 
unable to think in abstract terms. They 
see everything in black-and-white, and 
cannot even imagine the myriad shades of 
gray. They think that clans can't sinfj, 
that horses can't fly, and that an ob- 


Don't be effendc.! 

if I call you Lot's wife — 

I'm not confused about your gender. 
Like her, 

you stand lone and windblown 

at the edge of the Dead Sea. 

I ask if you'd ever been to Sodom, 

or walked the nectar-splattered street( 

of Gonorraho 
I'm curious, you see. 
I'd also like to know 

what you thought of the conflagration. 

Judy Belfield 

I watched you the day you were U3I7. 
You glimpsed your face in a looking gl 
and caw a secret disfigurement of soul 
a blemish you made much too large. 

You were Medusa, 

turning everyone to stone 

who dared to look, 

but did you know 

that when you looked into the m5.rror 

you turned yourself to stone? 


I watched you the day you were ugly. 
I couldn't speak 
but I was crumbling. 


jective reality exists independent of 
the participant-observer. The concept 
of subjective reality, what Heraclitus 
called the ideas koinos, is not for 

L Random Seduction 
It was in early January that I 
first noticed her attending one of my 
lectures. I was relating quantum phy- 
sics to the poetry of Verlaine and 
other symbolists. She sat near the 
back of the hall , apart from the other 
students, and wore a red dress that 


Buddha In A Jar, continued 

displayed both cleavage and nostril hair. 
After forty years of egalitarian relation- 
ships, I decided to treat her as a sex 

She Cane 
to ny office later and leaned over the 
desk, asking irrelevant questions about 
Schrodinger ' s Cat and Fetes Galantes . Her 
tongue swept over her lower lip suggestive- 
ly, and snail beads of perspiration mingled 
with the fine downy hair on her forehead. 

We went to a snail cafe. We drank. 
She told ne about her Arts Foundation 
grant and we discussed the Impressionists. 
The waiter was an arrogant elitist named 
Raoul. I left only a nininal tip. 

When she left ny apartment slightly 
before dawn she neglected to lock the door. 
When I awoke ny stereo and most of my 
records were gone. I began boiling water 
for coffee. 

A Poem About Penguins 

They're tuxedo- clad, 
Pretentious nonads. 

They seen dignified, 
Alnost snide. 

But when they waddle, 
With open throttle, 

We look and lough, 
Like drunken giraffes. 

For they look so silly — 
Those Chilly Willys. 

Sp lay-Footed Hydras 
are creatures of habit. Like nuns. Or 
Derek Nunney, the well-known capitalist. 

— They look like snart dogs. What 
are their nanes? 

— Muffin and Marshncllow. 

Jayne Woodcock 

— Yeah? What kinda stuff can they 

— Well, Muffin is continuing Ein- 
stein's search for a Unified Field The- 
ory, and Mar shoe How is translating 
Dostoevcley into some Aleutian dialects 
for the Eskimos. 

— Oh, okay. 

A Strange Band Of Mtosicinns 
and their rag- tag followers, playing un- 
earthly progressions as if their lives 
depended on it. 
truth? they ask, 

Who's to cay what'* the 
The world awaits an 


He always wore a roof wherever he was 

3oarded up the windows so he couldn't see it snowing 
Wore galoshes so his feet wouldn't get vet or dirty 
Rolled up the sidewalk by seven- thirty 
Drank warm milk from disposable glasses 
Didn't read the paper — didn't watch the telly 
Dressed in an impeccable, bullet-proof sweater 
And slept all alone 'cos he didn't know better 

The Spotted Flycatcher 
belongs to the Muscicapidae family. It 
haunts woods, copses, lanes, and gar- 
dens. Although its plumage is incon- 
spicuous, it is a favorite of birdwat- 
chers. This is due to its amusing eat- 
ing habits. Nearly invisible at the top 
of its favorite stick or stone, it will 
suddenly dart out from its perch after a 
luckless insect, twisting and turning in 
the air in such a convulsive manner that 
even the most level-headed vermin will 
experience a near-total befuddlement. 
This is depravity at its best. The 
Spotted Flycatcher makes a high squeak, 
like a blender in need of repair, and a 
acolding "wee-tuc-tuc" when in distress. 

Opinionated And Biased 
Most Westerners should not attempt 
to write haiku. They seen to believe 
that all that is required is the ability 
to cougt out seventeen syllables, and 
they ignore the more important considera- 
tions of mood, tone, and subject matter. 
Before writing haiku, try this sim- 
ple three-dimensional Rorschach test. 
Go to the Bio Lab and look at the jar on 
the shelf. If you see a smiling Buddha, 
you can take the cap off your pen. If 
you see a fetus in misery, stick to ro- 
mantic slush and diatribes against abor- 

For More Details 
about the Buddha in a jar, talk to some- 
one who has had class in its residence, 
like Herman Hesse. 

fc'* «-t. K.I* «.*-. MjM L. •. '- 



Randy Varju 

Grapes aren't going on a vacation this year, 

That son of theirs was arrested again. Won't he ever 

Grow up? I juct don't know what goes 

On in hie denented mind. He alwayc walkc down 

The street without ever saying hi. I heard through the grape 

Vine that he was caught with drugs this time. His parents 

Are a little strange too. Why else would they 

Onlv_ ground that young degenerate? He should have 

A whippin like I had when I was 

Snail. Next, he'll drop out of school and try to live off of that 

Part- time immoral job 

Of his playing in that rock band. By 

The way, have you heard about the nuclear power 

Plant they're going to build next door? 


Judy Belfield 


That Thursday afternoon, 

sprawled out across the sky, 

didn't hang itself, 

as planned, 

on the beaks of eagles, 

but rather, 

rode on hummingbirds' wings, 

jumping fitfully 

as its life frittered away. 

It was a beast of a day, 

a panther growling in its sleep 

with claws at the ready, 

a nail- studded steamiron 

that shredded and scorched the silken 

Thursday , 

when the gnats gathered in 
the tatted shawls of humidity 
and simpered in the sizzling footprints 
of God ... 


the day before the rains broke loose 
and thumbed their way to New Jersey. 


Michael A. Stillman 


With a full deck of credit cards, 
She shopped solitaire. 

Listening to a Muzak version 

of "Yesterday," 

she thought, 

Isn't there more than this? 


Maureen Mueller 


An oil slick ... 
Steamed wtth each 

overripe radiator drizzle, 
Asphalt smeared, 
Laced with 

tire-treaded gum wads 

and unidentifiable gutterbits, 
Yet . . . 

Strangely impressive, 
An irridescent palette 

under the vapor light. 
Even sludge is art. 


Michael A. Stillman 


Peter O'Hara began the day by going 
to the mailbox and looking for a residual 
check. The payments had been arriving 
irregularly, sporadically, for twenty- 
eight years, ever since he had first found 
employment ("temporary," he had called it 
then) a3 a movie extra. He was paid to 
look anonymous, nondescript, blandly com- 
monplace. He was good at it. 

Today there was no check — only The 
Times and a couple of bills. He returned 
to the house, screendoor slamming behind 

him ( "Naodc a new spring," he thought), 
and plugged in the coffee pot. Feeling 
something tug at his foot, he looked down 
to see Maxine, an eccentric blur of white- 
ness, chewing on his clipper, and he 
reached for the cat food. 

Poor Maxine, he thought. Always 
second priority. Always subordinate to 
my own needs. She really should be an 
equal partner around here. 

Peter poured each of the four cat 
foods into its own compartment in the 



Destiny, continued 

large bowl, and added the ucual tonic to 
three of them. He placed the bowl on the 
floor, next to his own place at the snail 
table, and added an extra treat as an 

Maxine had been his only companion 
since his wife died eight years earlier. 
The days were spent watching television, 
doing crossword puzzles, and waiting for 
a casting director to pick his nane off a 
list and phoae. Some evenings he would 
substitute in a bridge club and proudly 
point out his face in its brief moments 
on the screen. 

He filled his first pipe of the day 
and browsed through the newspaper ado ., 
looking for the beet prices on hedge- 
ta. Jxinj-i tx'g equipment. The coffee began per- 
colating and he stood up, chair legs 
screeching across the linoleum. 

Hitler screamed in his cage, waking 
Marcella. She opened her eyes and cursed, 
irritated at the bird. Rolling out of bed, 
her bones crackled like a well-known break- 
fast cereal, and she began to pour seed 
between the bars of the cage and into the 
bin. Chirping in satisfaction, Adolf 
pecked at the grain. 

The parakeet had been named by Vivian, 
her mah-jong partner and best friend. They 
had been up late drinking creme liquers and 
idly making card-houses out of the mah-jong 
tiles, discussing their fomer husbands. 
Suddenly Vivian had dropped her tiles and 
exclaimed, "I know! Let's name the little 
pecker after Hitler!" and so the bird xras 
christened with a bottle of Bristol. 

Marcella smiled at the memory and 
opened the door to her salon-bathroom. It 
was furnished in chrcmo and tile, with 
publicity stills of well-known actors of 

the 40' s between the mirrors. The large 
pink bathtub stretched before her in- 
vitingly. She poured in crystals and 
turned on the water. As the tub slovly 
filled she examined her figure in the 
tull_i eng th mirrors, lit by track lights. 
She looked a decade younger than her 
forty-eight years , cheekbones high and 
eyebrows arched attractively even with-. 
out makeup. She did skin- tone exercises 
until the tub was full. 

She 6l imbed into the warm suds and 
began to plan her afternoon. I haven't 
had a day off in months, she remarked to 
herself. I deserve this one. A big day 
of browsing and buying in the mall. May- 
be look over the new line of makeup at 
Darlene's. Get my hair done. Buy a pair 
of slacks for that party. What else 
do I need? I know I had something else 
in mind--what was it? 

She leaned back in the tub, wondering 
and the sunlamp's timer kept ticking . . . 

Later that day, shoppers walked 
amidst manicured trees and survey- takers 
in the atrium of Orchard Gardens Mall. 
Vague pop tunes, performed by "The 101 
Strings," oozed in the background, at- 
tempting to offend none pad relax all* 

Peter O'Hara was looking over the 
Meerschaums at Nick's Tobacco Shop, won- 
dering when a new shipment would arrive. 
He bought a pouch of "Billing's Black 
Oak," his favorite tobacco, and strolled 
out the door. 

Marcella happened to be walking near 
the same door, laden with packages. As 
their paths were about to intersect, she 
dropped a large bag. 

Peter stared into the middle distance 
and stepped onto the elevator. 


Mary Ann Gilman 


Being a reclining 3pecies, humane have 
many varied uses for beds. When a mother 
gives birth, she is usually on some type 
of bed. The newborn is laid in a bed im- 
mediately after birth. All through life, 
beds play an important part in supporting 
our bodice for a portion of each day when 
we sleep. 

Sleep, of course, is only one use for 
bode. There are beds of sin, x/hich are not 
always located in brothels. Marriage bode 
are legalized beds of sin, but some mar- 
riage beds remain pure. When someone in 
our society asks , "Do you want to go to 
bed?" they are not necessarily inquiring 
as to whether you are. aleepy. 

Although bouncing beds are sometimes 
caused by sexual activity, they may also 
be caused by playful children jumping, 
rolling, and pillow fighting; instead of 
taking their naps. The bouncing bed can 
be avoided by bedding down children on 
pallets made of blankets laid on the 
ground or the floor. Thi-efc blankets 
need not be filled with goose- d:>wn like 
the famous Grandma's feather bed, which 
provided enough bounce for any child. 

When sick or tired, we stay in bed. 
Some beds are specially designed for the 
sick and bedridden. Bedpans and bedside 
manner are important aspects of care for 
these sick people. For the sick who won't 


( continued) 

Bedlam, continued 

recover, there are deathbedc; however the 
death bod is not necessarily the final 
resting place. 

A bed can be a sanctuary, though not 
necessarily a hideaway bed. Comforters 
are used as covers, but can also be com- 
forting to lie on when sad and lonely 
and in need of a good cry. Any type of 
comforter will do when you're feeling 

Breakfast in bed can be a treat, un- 
leas bedrolls are served. Queens and Kings 
are frequently catered to in bed, but not 
everyone who sleeps in a Queen- or King- 
sized bed is treated royally. 

Bedbugs in the bedclothes can be a 
bother, but when they get into nightclothes 
it can become a nightnaro. Bedtime stories 
are often followed by goodnight phrases of 
"Sleep tight, and don't let the Debugs 
bite." Playing asleep is sometimes unwise 
when your mother says, "Get out of bed, you 

Then the task of making the bed fol- 
lows getting out of the bed.' Some beds 
have only sheets in warm climates. These 
sheets may be fitted or flat, but are us- 
ually rumpled after a night's sleep. Bed- 
ding may also consist of blankets, quilts, 
and a decorative spread. Beds may be made 
in military style, even if they aren't 
bunks or cots. 

Changing beds includes removal of the 

bedding and replacing them with clean, 
but it also implies changing partners in 
bed, which goes along with a line from 
Shakespeare ' s Tempest , "Misery acquaints 
a man with strange bedfellows." Chang- 
ing beds is often the result of "Sleep- 
ing Single in a Double Bed," which is the 
title of a popular song performed by Bar- 
bara Mandrell. Another of her songs is 
"You Can Eat Crackers in My Bed Anytime." 
Most of us know how detestable cracker 
crumbs in bed can be. 

As Christmas nears, we are reminded 
of the baby Jesus sleeping in a manger 
for a bed. A number of improvisations 
have been made for baby beds , from 
,baskets to drawers to boxes. 

Most of us have bedrooms for our 
beds. Modern bed structures include 
wooden or metal frames and enclosed 
springs. Mattresses are often filled with 
cotton or synthetic fibers and additional 
springs, but some are water-filled. Many 
shapes and sizes of beds are available 

Finally, since sleep is the great- 
est reason for having a bed, we can hit 
the sack, hit the hay, or light for the 
night, which is my intended use for my 
bed now. Samuel Pepy wrote in his diary 
in 1660, "And so to bed," and I concur. 


Judy Belfield 

The morning after Gaius bled 

in the senate portico , 

perhaps all of Gaul's three parts cheered, 

and that ancient roar echoed 

through the back streets of Paris 

centuries later, 

as the shadow of a misshapen man 

hobbled home one smoky night 

after the cabarets had snuffed their lights. 

Perhaps he heard the thunder of beggars' rags 

from another time 

when LeFarge screamed through the city. 

Time and silence followed him home 

where he recorded a sallow-faced lady 

who stares seductively into today. 

A sea of turquoise crashes around her, 

and in the blur of blue and green, 

anonymous voices of then 

shout to anonymous voices of now. 
In the midst of it all, 

a small man wearing a tall black hat 


Maureen Mueller 


Magritte symbols 

removed from the whole-- 

His hands ... 

Disembodied strength 

chiseled of Car err a marble, 

His gestures ... 

Uindoong movements- 
wrinkling the stillness 
with gentle music. 




David Moore 


All mournings under the sun 

Shall be blinded by strange lightnings . < 

Tears of the gods streaking the skies 

with electrical pain 
Heavy dewdrops hang fron gallows of grass 
And they fall as their own weepings, 


Maureen Mueller 


In darkness — 
Bottled like a djinni 

ready at a touch to break free 

he waits for the necessary magic-- 
Perhaps ... 

In another node of time or being 
(in one of those mystical 
Mediterranean nights „ . . ) 
But she is no dreamer — 

she lies an emotional continent away 
breathing in the "real" world — 
In darkness. 


, . Judy Belfield 


A softly warm and shadowed evening — 

just at twilight — 

when the ghosts of afternoon 

flutter and fade into memory, 

and breezes, 

gently sighing, 

roll the darkness in . . . 
It's then the whispering voices of the agec 

breathe the verses of their souls, 

no longer caged in yellowed pages, 

or locked within the ink of words — 
which cannot tell 
the truth of thoughts — 

but floating free, 

they drift on melodies 

inseparable from the wind. 

The timelessness of man 

and the dreams of a thouaand years 
caress the dying colors of day, 
haunting the dusk 

with a silent chorus of passions « 


Judy Belfield 


All the worlds rolled slowly 

in the vast, black sky,. 
Like immense ball bearings in a mammoth machine 

steady , shining , sure , 

apace with the thoughts of gods — 
And there stood Scipio, 

a mite in the midst of monstrosity 

with the chorus of heaven in his ears — 

a microscopic man 

floating in infinity's cup 

of dark, sweet wine. 

The ages close 

between the day of Rome and now, 

are drawn together like purse strings , 

the threads of centuries kissing each other 

at the knot of today, 

as though no time had passed — 

And Scipio interlaces his fingers with eternity 
awaiting the full-year's end, 
when his name shall be forgotten. 


David Moore 

There are many people in the sea 
Looking up at you 
There are many people in the sea 
They're a lovely shade of blue 

Now their lives are over 

And there were none to lend a hand 

None save gentle Noah 

Who wasn't trapped on land 

Good will, good will, good will to all 
But hardly after Satan' s fall 
Who says we're all in the same boat? 
It's so much easier to let then float 

"Carcass, carcass in the sea 
Why do you stare at me? 
It's not a3 though I wished you ill 
Listen, listen — t'was God's will 
you do believe me? 
don ' t you? 


Jayne Woodcock 


David Moore 

There was a wind. It wac only a 
little wind, but it blew promise in our 
faces as we walked down the road to 
satori--"It can't be more than a mile 
or so," you accurad me. The surrounding 
air was thick and cool with the scent of 
fresh-crushed foliage and new earth, and 
as you squeezed my hand, I laughed, for 
the starshine tickled my eyelids and 
numbed my lips, numb enough already. 
The path was rough and narrow, hard- 
packed earth beneath our feet, but we 
neither stumbled, nor left the road to 
satori to walk in the tall, soft-looking 
grass that lay to either side of us, wa- 
ving invitingly in the breeze. We were 
alone there, no light, no life save for 
the nature that closed in around our souls 
and squeezed us breathless with its beauty 
until exhaustion lay sweet and light with- 
in our breasts — still on we walked. 

Lights swam into view in the near dis- 
tance, cold, sickly, electric illumina- 
tions 3pilling out of metal-edged windows 
and warehouse doors; it was as if a dull 
knife had ripped through the silky flesh 
of the night, exposing the infection be- 
neath the perfection. The light was di- 
seased, the color of old pus, and it beck- 
oned us onward with rotting fingers — I 
could smell the decay of flesh, the ran- 
cid fat torn from skin and meat, left to 
melt in anonymous lumps upon cold concrete 
floors, but predominant was the thick, hot 
stanch of fresh blood, a recent kill, and 
ths scent stunned and stoned our senses 
into revulsion. Your hand trembled in mine 
and I glanced up quickly, recognizing the 
fear in your eyes -as my own. Still, here 
the road to satori led, here and then 
beyond, but it was here that destiny would 
have us tarry awhile on our journey. We 
hid in the half-darkness , whispering no- 
thing, watching the ohcr-p- edged death- 
machines rumble metallically over the 
broken earth; only a few did we actually 
see, but we knew the rest were only hid- 
den, for we heard their voices, a thous- 
and howls of lust and madness echoing 
through and around the corrugated metal 
of their lairs. You held your trembling 
fingers to my lips as a brief gesture of 
caution, and mind in uind, we slipped 
around the dark edges of this nightmarish 
reality until, creeping imto a hopefully 
uninhabited building on the outskirts of 
the compound, we found whet the road had 
led us here to see, the source of the 
sickening odor, the very core of evil re- 
vealed. In the shimmering light of the 
temple we stood, reviled, for there was 
blood on the floor, blood on the walls, 
blood on the raised metal sacrificial 
slabs — wet blood, warn blood, sticky be- 



it seems so unreal 
Standing in the Plutonium cornfiels 
Atoms dancing 'round my fingertips 
Quantum probability drizzles 

from billions of untouched realities 
Alternate universes screaming of what 

might have been 
Lo3t loves and unresolved hates 

Revolve to completion and resolution 
In some unknown elsewhere 

neath our feet and it stank horribly. 
With reverence for the evil that inha- 
bited this place, we turned together 
and fled silently, back to the wind and 
the road. 

Set free by the other side of ex- 
perience, we walked again down the road 
to satori, away from the light, away 
from the stench, away from the death, 
holding each other, laughing, dancing. 
"Almost there S" cried a tiny voice in 
my head, and I think you heard it too, 
for we celebrated wordlessly together. 
The road was wider now, and smoother — 
we were still running, dancing, stop- 
ping, holding, running some more — 
"Almost there!" cried the voice ag*in, 
louder this time, so it must have been 
true. Our joy was alive and uncontained 
— maybe a step more, maybe two, maybe 
three— I could taste it upon my tongue, 
the perfection of the night, the stars, 
the little wind ... but suddenly the 
friendly grumble of a four-wheeled 
vehicle cut short pur celebration, as 
the headlights of the old truck split 
the night. The truck slowed, and the 
spell was broken, but not the spirit, 
for although enlightenment hod eluded 
us, at least for tonight, our elation 
remained intact, and you turned to me 
with a smile and said, "We'll have to 
do this again sometime." 

Don Zahorcik 


The small dining room was furnished 
elegantly. Under dim electric lights 
a small group of men sat around a long 
mahogany table. A tall, neatly uniform- 
ed man stood up at the end of the table. 
"A toast, gentlemen," Colonel Von Haupt- 
mann said, "to a quick end to the war. 


Ride , continued 

Lieutenant Colonel Malccrwi-Lewia, 
late of Her Majesty's Royal Navy, mailed 
back aa he turned hia drink. He knew if 
he wasn't here they would have toasted to 
victory, but the Prussian officers were 
ever-gracious "hosts." Their aristocra- 
tic behavior towards him, a fellow offi- 
cer, almost belied the fact that he was 
their prisoner. 

He had been adrift a week following 
the torpedoing of the H.M.S. Portsmouth. 
In the thick fog he had become separated 
from the other survivors, who were picked 
up almost immediately by a U Boat (ho was 
told later). It was the Graf -Zeppelin 
Gottdammerung which came across him days 
later, wet but alive. 

His treatment on«board had amazed 
him. Overexposure to propaganda had pre- 
pared him for the worst from the "Huns." 
Instead, he was treated with all the honor 
and respect due an enemy officer, and was 
even (J n friendly terms with Colonel Haupt- 
mann. Over the course of the two weeks 
they had had many interesting conversations 
on a wide variety of subjects. The rela- 
tively ioutine nr.turo of the airship's 
mission allowed for a lot of spare time for 
the crew. The Englishman allowed Von 
Hauptmann to practice his English, and in 
return the German officer introduced 
Malcomn-Lewis to the virtues of Wagner. 
They spent hours listening to the victrola 
recordings of "The Ring of the IT! cb clung," 
"Siegfried," and "Tannhauser." "Wr^ncr 
truly understood the glorious destiny of 
ther German people," Von Hauptmann proudly 

A young lieutenant suddenly burst into 
the room. "Herr Colonel," he said ner- 
vously, "you're needed on the bridge." 
Jagged lightning flashed through the glass 
porthole on the wall. Wordlessly the 
dinner broke up as the officers left to 
resume their duties. 

Malcomn-Lewis walked back to his room, 
his guard stationed outside. The guard 
was there for show only; the Englishman 
would never break his code of gentlemen's 
honor against his chivalrous "hosts." He 
realized, of course, that it was hi* duty 
as an officer to try to escape, but he 
accepted his captivity for the time being. 
He rationalized that there wa3 little he 
could do for the war effort aloft in an 
enemy dirigible God-knows-where above the 
North Sea. 

Colonel Von Hauptmann' s face went 
white as he looked out the main viewport, 
A towering wall of rolling black clouds 
stretched across the sky as far as he could 
see. "What is our location?" he c.c'kcC. the 

"Ten hours away from the coast," re- 
plied the navigator. Strange, bluish- 
green lightning bolts flashed amidst the 
boiling clouds. It was too late now to try 

to rioe cut the storm. "Half-speed 
ahead," the colonel ordered. 

The great airship lurched, metal 
girders groaning as it pitched through 
the maelstrom. Deep rumWling thunder 
boomed constantly so that whet little 
was said was shouted through hoarse 
throats. The storm seemed to last 
days, but the precision chronometer on 
the bridge stubbornly registered only a 
few hours. Then the airship was through 
the other side of the storm- front, as 
suddenly as they had come upon it in 
the first place. 

There was a knock at the door. 
"Colonel Lewis," a voice summoned. 
"Colonel Von Hauptmann wishes to see you 
on the bridge." Malcomn-Lewis rose from 
his bed and followed the young orderly 
down the corridor. 

When they arrived on the bridge, 
the Englishman saw the usually tidy 
and spotless bridge in bedlam. Maps 
and charts were strewn about every 
available counter- top, and several 


fallen to the floor. "Ah, Colonel, I'd 
like your opinion on this," Von Haupt- 
mann said, motioning towards the window. 
A hundred feet below, breakers were 
smashing along a dark coastline. 

"Obviously," continued the German, 
"4ur instruments have been damaged by 
the storm; they indicate our positien 
as 54 degrees north by 8 degrees east. 
If this were true, we would be able to 
see the lights of Wilhelmhaven by now." 
He gestured out the viewport. "AcXit 
is, this coast cannot be matched with 
any of our charts. You said fcefore 
you've travelled years in these waters — 
perhaps you could identify ..." 

"I'm sorry to disappoint you, Colo- 
nel," Malcomn-Lewis coid, "but for the 
life of me, I can't place it. Maybe the 
Dutch coast — it often changes, what with 
the dikes and floods ..." 

The German mulled thi3 over for a 
moment, rubbing his brow in thought. 
"No, Holland is too far west from our 
last definite position. At any rate," 
he concluded, "we will continue east- 
wardly along the coast. If you wish you 
may stay here on the bridge until we 
ascertain our true position." 

Hours later, the sun rose above 
the clouds, revealing a thick forest 
at the edge of the coastal beaches. In 
the distance was a large hill with a 
small village at the base and a castle on 
the top. "Perhaps we could obtain the 
fuel we need there," ventured '.the first 

The dirigible continued ahead slow- 
ly; it had been damaged in the storm. 
Far below a man watched, then galloped 
off on horseback towards the castle. 

The village became closer. "I don't 
understand," said the navigator, "these 


( continued) 

Ride , continued 

buildings, they're old, designed like some 
medieval hictory book descriptions I've 
seen, but they looked like they were built 
last year." 

"Perhaps this is Denmark," queried the 

Suddenly a group of horsemen bolted 
out from the woods. Each carried a lit 
torch, and had a bow and arrows slung 
across his back. 

"I don't like the lodes of that," . 
Von Hauptmann muttered, M 3cirgviant$ get 
the megaphone and ask them the name of 
their village. In Danish." 

"Yawohl, Herr Colonel," replied the 
cr.rgoo.nt who spoke fluent Danish. 

Suddenly the horsemen drew arrows to 
their bows, and lit the tips with their 
torches. "Mein GottI" eric". Von Hauptmann, 
"the hydrogen cells!" 

The arrox/s flew up into the gas bag. 
There was a tremendous burst of flame as 
it exploded. The horses reared and whin- 
nied in terror as the huge flaming mass 
plummetted, hitting the ground heavily. 

Out of the twisted wreckage scrambled 
the survivors: Mai comn- Lewis , Von Haupt- 
mann, a short corporal, and a burly sar- 
geant. They watched in silence as the 
flaraee quickly died out. The sargeant 
shouted, breaking the silence, "Look!" 

The horsemen had gathered in a group 
and were watching them intently. "Treach- 
erous dogs!" the colonel screamed. 
He drew his pistol, a 9mm Luger, and open- 
ed fire. Two of the horsemen fell , then 
the rest returned fire with a volley of 

arrows. The corporal pitched forward, 
dead, and the other three retreated 
into the smoldering wreckage. 

An hour passed slowly. Rummaging 
through the remains of the airship, they 
came up with a Manser rifle, seven roundc 
of ammunition, and the German colonel's 
ceremonial saber, given to him by Bio- 
narck himoolf . The sargeant took the 
rifle, the Von Hauptmann his saber. He 
handed the Englishman his Luger. "Only 
four rounds left, I'm afraid." 

In the distance more horsemen 
from the castle were massing. Colonel 
Von Hauptmann dug into a pile of debris, 
dragging his victrola and some thick 
one-sided records out from beneath. 
There wa3 a wild look in his eyes as 
he began to crank up the damaged machine. 
The record was ecratchcC and the player 
dented and cracked, but incredibly 
enough, the music came out strong. "The 
Ride of the Valkyries," Von Hauptmann 
shouted, waving his aaber. 

Mai comn- Lewis and the sargeant 
emptied their weapons into the oncoming 
enemy. Then the horsemen closed, broad- 
swords flashing crimson. Von Hauptmann 
fell , blood oozing from a dozen lethal 
wounds. High above, in an azure sky, 
he saw flashes of gold. Blond hair 
fr.llin3 about gleaming armor, the 
women warriors sat atop winged mounts. 
Screaming in harmony, the swooped down 
towards him ... 


David Moore 

Randy Var ju 



Symbolic Babylon 
Harlots and whores 
Riding red dragons 
They follow strange mores 

Symbolic Babylon 
It's a pagan parade 
Gods and goddesses 
Sing serenades 

Symbolic Babylon 
They say represents sin 
But such Christian air 
Often seems thin 

Dried souls falling from the 

trees of salvation. 

Carelessly raked into piles 

and set fire to. 

No mourning over their loss 

until morning, when the smell 

of their burning flesh can be smelled 

through kitchen windows over breakfast. 

Ashes returned to dust, covered by 

the virgin white blanket of winter. 

Nothing more than nutrients for the 

soil of spring. 






These poems by John Stobart were collected 
haphazardly to provide some bulk to WORDEATER 42. 
The Staff does not endorse them. Stobart'c also 
insecure about their merit, but hopes they will 
prove helpful. ^ — i J J // 

.4 ft u x- — ' y .// 





"Write me a poem, baby." 
That line seems to haunt me. 

A book by H. Allen Smith, authority, 
A taunt I use incessantly. 

Write us a poem that we may see 

The large and small of insanity. 

The swift and sudden truth of me 

The bold but gracious thrust of thee. 

Write me , baby. 

Baby, write me 

Write me large for eternity 

Etch my lines on the family's tree. 

Raise me goosebumps in a chivarco 

Make me laugh and cry religiously. 

A poem, baby, write me. 

Of me 

For me 

To me 

Throttgk me 

Woo me 

Do me. 

Me, baby, write in harmony 

Struggle for that euphony 

Mind the syntax soothingly 

Stretch the senses for no fee 

Show the patches on ny knee 

Avoid puns floating on the sea 

And rhymes that suckle- sting a bee 

Never be flip or gauche or cutesy 

Or idiomatic to a T. 

Write me a poem, baby me. 

'X"rC 'A"X"A' "A'TVtT 



The tranquil tea rose 

Sedately waits , 

Identical in its red 

To four ovular place mats 

Almost covering 

A -perfectly round, 

Golden oak table. 

Her fate is determined. 

Her wait is slight 

For her date 

Soon or late, 

With her mate, 

Love and hate, 

In the slate-colored 

Dustbin of death. 


A raw red blwck of beef 
Skims and bobs about 
The stainless steel sink., 
A battleship of stew meat. 
Frozen solid and needing 
A quick-thaw, 

It floats, just as the soap 
Used to in the tub 
But more charming because 
Ivory is an established myth 
To remember 
And battleships too 
Are obsolete, 
But mainly due to its 
Marvelous pennant 
Done in red, white, and blue 
Uit'i a silver edge stating, 
"USDA Choice 
Guaranteed Tender." 



Stobart, continued 


Today, for the first tine 

I saw a potato bloom, 

Pale blue petals, saffron center, 


Yet soon I'll be fifty, 

A half century, 

And there ' o 30 much around 

Me I've failed to see 

Had I not been lamenting 

My failure to notice the 

Wild Rose until now, its pink 

Blooms having shriveled, I'd have missed 

The potato again this year. 

Some six years the rose grew 

Where a Holiday Inn now stands. 

Seeing myself as St. Francis of 

The Flowers, I dug for seeming 

Hours in the August heat to 

Save it from the dozer's vicious blade. 

Yearly since then I've celebrated myself, 

A hero for that moment, 

As reward for my many scratches then 

And since due to my concern for 

This pale, unscented bloom. 

Today, though, the potato blooms 
For me 

And maybe for the once-courted, oft- 
applauded rose I had forgotten. 



October light 


And mutes , 

Blowing kisses 

With panache 

And burnishing 

Pyrrhic charms 

From moribund drabness , 

A patina prompting 



Aureole and corona 

That tintype 

Or tintinabulate 

A luster 

More eternal 

Perhaps , 

Due to its failure 

To divine. 



"Too new stew won't do," 
You told me once, 
With a still, small smile 
Maybe twenty years back. 
And just now, I think, 
You told me true. 

And viewing stew, thinking of you, 

How must it always be: 

Not fresh-cooked, fast, 

Or even 3lowly simmered 

But thought on early, 

Forgot, then cherished anew. 

Like most great brew, this stew 

Must make at leisure. 

The meat only major, 

Not dominant. 

Choice cuts rendered trim, 

But never prime Cordon Bleu . 

Tickling my tooth for you, 
Gentle onion spicing thru 
Sweet heat blend of herb, 
Juices clutching hot 
In golden carrots — 
And potatoes too. 



Sour cream 'n chive potatoes 


Broiled lamb chops 

Tripped the menu 

Daintily through my mind, 

So that my market basket 

Went clank 

And dumped 

My mums out on the asphalt drive: 

Oh, sunshine mums meant to lift 

My wife from her depression! 

A grand-pa type 

Leaned down to assist, 

Flamingo-like pose, 

When a screech like sin 

Invaded the ocnne 

And a fender curved 

Round his bender. 

A dark brown boat 

Glistening with lustre 

Commanded by Betty Crocker Incarnate 

Had fi3h- tailed around my protector, 

And now stared at Spring Byington gone 

Who with twisted-mouthed contempt 
Shouted, "Old Goat, watch your ass!" 
And I responded, 

"Curb your mouth, you chauvinist tycoon!" 
And the old guy frowned at me, 
Offering the flowers and saying, 
"That's no tycoon, that's my wife." 



Stobart, continued 



Big red bear, 

Sitting stiff by the window 
Looking neither out nor in. 
What do you cost 
In coin and carnage? 

Who stuffed you in that storeroom and why? 
For what carny did you panda? 
Whose games of chance did you shill? 
Or, gruesome carnation bruin, 
What depravity of taste 
Prompted your birth? 

What fiend designed those plastic pop-eyes, 
Goo, goo, goggily? What robot packed and 
What cretin kred you en masse 
To sell by the gross to the mine-shaft 



Mothers and teachers 

I apologize,, 

I can't name the flowers 

And know ought but the Big Dipper. 

Why am I ignorant of musculature, 

Latin, and Doc Savage? 

Why blank on batik, Bach, and 


Why does my cerebellum 

Reflect the Doppler effect 

Blue or red, 

And logarithms and the words 

That abbreviate D. N. and A.? 

Why am I such a dabbler? 

So easily content with baby steps 

And never anywhere near a leap? 

Hy grasp exceeds my reach, 

Large and small. 



/ ! 

They're a thankless lot 

Those cardinal s end sterlings. . 

They grump about in pairs or flocks 

Futzing and preening , 

Strutting their stuff in the sun, 

Ruffling and preening their fine-fed 

feathers , 
Swooping down 
To the trough 

And mixing with the commonplace sparrowi 
For the free grub 
Then darting off again 
Or lumbering aloft, like lead, 
Heads turned by better pickings 
0r bushes more posh. 
The. very least right they demand 
Is suet and sunflower, a platform, 
And a catless plot 
In their ultimate flights 
To sun-belted futures and commodities-- 
The American right! 



Just now it came to me, 

"You know, you knew you were happy 

A few days ago." Purely delighted, 

And knowing what all was about. 

For years I had tried to catxh 
Myself happy in the present tense, 
\ Doubting the possibility. 
And now I know I did. 



Not alone, 
I laugh 
Disturbing I 
In theaters 
At home 

With friend and foe 
At work and play — 
Dismaying ! 
With others , 

Of course, I guess, maybe 
But even elone, alone? 


Not belonging 

Noc despair 

Or even chagrin — 

But the awkwardness registers 

Somewhere out of mind 

And synchrony 


m \ 


But it somehow slipped away, 
Leaving a sort of ache. 
And I know it's gone 
And suspect I won't recognize 
It again if it returns 
\And I'm sure now I feel more 
\Sad than before I knew. 

With the cacophonous folds 
Skulled in my alter ego's tomb- 
Galactic giggles 
At my c 
And I fear the fare 
Prohibits passage. 



Stobart, continued 



"I've seen the olbphenfc," 

Spoke a mountain man. 

"My stars!" a listener exclaims. 

"And then the lightning spoke," 

Froclaime another, 

Perhaps in the Year of the Turtle, 

Maybe in the Moon of Spotted Tigers , 

Cr Albino Zebras. 

In the seasons of the sun 

Bereft or not 

Of joy and fun. 

Come the sorrows. 

"The centaur is a mythological beast," 

Ends one story tainted with wit 

But the "teeth-tiered sharks" run amok 

Below it all. 

And by the sign of Cancer's crab 

Millions fall 

Leaving a chorus °f weeping women by the wall 

And legionnaires trembling in a hall. 

There ' s an eternal doorman 

Guarding the turnstyles of life 

Perhaps to enter is to rot 

Optimism: maybe not. 

Dress it in shadows with gargoyle glee 

Shape it Protean 

Or Hydra-headed 

Tang it 

Bang it in armor aging green — • 

Life's nicest monsters 

Are dreamed not seen 

But when the dragon speaks, 

I listen 

With my spine 

And quake 

In my liver 

And rattle my stones 

Sentient but insensible 

Too groveling for groans. 

I listen 

But can only hear 

The ticking dawn 

Inside my bones. 



When Houbolt became a road, 

A monument of local good sense, 

His LEM metamorphosed to toad 

And hie princely future went hence. 

For Lincoln is, in part, a log 
And St. Bernard, indeed, a dog 
And Joliet, alas, a prison. 

While prison may also mean pen 
And dog remains someone's best fren 
And log is an item in accounting, 
How-then-now, Princely Houbolt, 
Your local LEM module of shame, 
The warts of this toad sucked 
To craters in road. 
Your street a retreat from your f.-> 



The tractors would roll and smooth 
This avenue leading to fame. 
A triumph of labor just to disprove 
The taunting thrust c.t Houbolt 1 c name. 


Crater-in-road popped back up in the 

And the prince still waits for the 

kissing — 


The prisons and pen 
The logs and the men 
The dogs and the frens 


The Saints are preserved in Joliet 
The LEM is forgotten but not the VET 
And Lincoln's redeemed as a savior 
And Bernard abandoned his cask 
Sobriety rules now in our favor 
And our cars in content can now back. 


*John Houbolt, JJC alum, who designed 
the Lunar Exploratory Module, called 

Stobart, continued 

CREDO #6 OR #9 

Ac cobalt lasers leech the bones to dawn 
Revolting worlds evolve and worn to life 
Earth's squirming birth affirms old Eth 
In viscose sea's amino-acid strife: 
Being becomes finite in tomb and race; 
An oozing harmony, the -perfect hitch, 
A fossil masking Plato's hide- in-f ace: 

How tempting now to crush this verse too thin: 

My muse's mimic gold, not lyric blame, 

Detect this surplus-woe as wisdom- skin; 

Its body all silicone-will-for-fame: 

This sonnet's double-helix, spittle-spite — 

Dancing Gammas bent on dawn' s internal night. 


Bjgrwf #>£&z. ... m/ 
War g*0s*f&3'„